thudding from the sound system. Ordinarily he enjoyed the ratcheted-up volume and uneasy merging of musical traditions, but now it was all starting to grate on him, the sweeps of electronic sound jangling his nerves, the female rap singer's falsetto highs tearing into his eardrums like steel spikes.
He'd been optimistic things would go more smoothly.
He took a deep breath, exhaled, then finally nodded, his smile tightening at the corners.
'Don't make more out of this than there is,' he said. 'It isn't that big a deal.'
'Bullshit. You think I'm stupid? An American with no business being in this country disappears, it's one thing to clean it up afterward. But a citizen? A woman! You've got to be joking. Something goes wrong and we're caught, I can look forward to a lot worse than six strokes of the rotan'
Fab B chuckled. 'In Singapore, a fellow with my habits and appetites is liable to receive that sort of punishment just for getting out of bed in the morning. It might be said that our system of justice stems directly from Christian notions of original sin.'
Xiang looked at him with his dark, empty eyes but said nothing.
Apparently, Fat B thought, his little stab at humor had gone over the ah beng's head. In fact, he himself was no longer smiling, his mood having taken a sharp and rather abrupt downturn in the past few seconds. It wasn't as if the money was coming out of his own pocket, but he didn't like being interposed between this thug and their mutual employers. Negotiation wasn't his favorite activity, and he'd hoped — perhaps foolishly — that the pirate would simply take the envelope and leave.
'Really, what's the problem?' he said. 'If you can grab both of them alive, fine. But it's this Blackburn who's truly valuable to our employers. Your main concern with the woman should be making certain she isn't left behind as a witness.'
'If this is so easy, why couldn't your people take care of it? They followed her. They took the pictures. They could have gone ahead with the next step.'
'We each have different ways of making ourselves useful. This country is where I live, you understand? I'm here for the long term. You're in and out, lah' Fat B shrugged again. 'Let's not waste any more breath discussing it. We're both already committed, after all.'
Xiang was silent. Fat B stared past him at the door, waiting for him to make up his mind, anxious for their transaction to be concluded. How had he wound up haggling with the brutish creature? The whole distasteful episode had given him a headache.
He waited some more, watching a couple of grimy men step in from the alley and then head over to the bar.
'All right,' the pirate said at last. 'But I better get the rest of my money soon as it's done. You better make sure of it.'
Fat B looked at him with quiet malice.
'Of course,' he said, nodding. 'It will be my pleasure.'
The two men regarded each other a moment without exchanging another word. Then Xiang stuffed the envelope containing the photos under his denim jacket, pushed his chair back from the table with his feet, got up, strode to the entrance, and departed, his two companions falling in at his rear.
A small hiss slipping through his front teeth, Fat B sat very still and watched the door swing shut behind them.
Blackburn had picked up the puppet at an open-air bazaar — this was a while back, during Dipvali, the Hindu Festival of Lights. Needing a break from his responsibilities at the ground station, he had taken a few days off and gone to the coast to enjoy the frenetic celebration, taking in the sidewalk dancers, musicians, and magicians, sampling the delicious curries and satays, browsing the crafts stalls, and just strolling at his leisure amid the exuberant banners, floral decorations, sprays of colored rice, and endless strings of candles, lamps, and lightbulbs brightening every door and window.
Wearing an elaborate turban with a peacock feather jutting straight up out of its bottom wind, a maroon shirt with glittery gold threads woven through its fabric in vertical stripes, and steel bangles on one skinny wrist, the vendor who'd sold Blackburn the puppet had looked like a street-corner sultan in his holiday finery. His open, spirited smile had revealed the black-stained teeth and reddened gums that were telltale signs of habitual betel chewing — an addictive concoction with mildly intoxicating properties, the betel probably made him look ten years older than his natural age.
Blackburn remembered the strong scent of exotic spice on his breath as he had stepped up close to make his pitch, a pair of two-dimensional leather puppets in each hand, waving them aloft on slender rods. He remembered their painted colors looking gaudy and brilliant in the midday sunshine, remembered the exquisite detail of their hand-tooled features, and most especially remembered admiring the workmanship of the one in the vendor's left hand. The one that had, in fact, first caught his eye, and was now hanging above him on the wall of his office — some sort of animistic figure, part elephant, part man.
'Fifty ringgits, twenty-five American dollars!' the man had been shouting as he manipulated the puppet over his head. Out of curiosity, Blackburn had stopped to ask the vendor which Hindu diety the puppet represented, speaking English because he had not yet become proficient in Bahasa, having been in Malaysia less than a month at the time.
Smiling his big, resin-stained smile, wagging his head up and down as if he'd understood Blackburn, the vendor had thrust the puppet into his face and enthusiastically hollered, 'Yes, yes! Fifty ringgits, twenty-five American dollars!'
'It's Ganesha, son of Shiva….'
The voice was female and carried a musical British accent. Blackburn had turned in its direction to see an Oriental woman of perhaps thirty or thirty-five, a strikingly beautiful woman with a sweep of angle-cut black hair, slanted brown eyes, and skin that had been tanned the color of almonds and cream in the perpetual August of the tropics. Wearing summer khakis, a loose cotton blouse, and sandals, she was carrying a Coach handbag over her shoulder, a bag he'd known must have cost more than the combined yearly income of everyone living in that village.
Blackburn remembered immediately noticing that she had a magnificent body. Even through her baggy clothes, he'd been able to tell. It was the way she carried herself, he supposed. But he'd always had an eye for that sort of thing.
One of your best assets in the field, he thought now, three months later, his face troubled, his inner voice edged with self-contempt. Sitting by the phone in his office, he couldn't remember whether the desire to go to bed with her, and the idea of convincing her to become a fly on Marcus Caine's wall, had been linked from the very beginning. Oh, he'd felt a superficial attraction right away, but when had he ever met a good-looking women he hadn 't thought would be fun in the sack?
Actually wanting her was another story, though. Wanting her, and then deciding he could use her…
He thought suddenly and unexpectedly about Megan Breen and how different it had been when they were together. Not better, but easier, without guilt. They had liked each other and felt lonely and isolated in the bleak Russian winter. Neither had held expectations of their affair going beyond what it was. There had been no secret agendas between them, nothing to hide. It had been up front and without manipulation, the lines and limits clearly defined.
Of course, he hadn't known who she worked for until at least five minutes into their conversation, which had begun with them chatting about the puppet.
'… a god representing man's animal nature,' she had said.
He'd looked at her and smiled. 'Thanks. Sounds like the perfect mascot for my office.'
'You'll see his image on a lot of pendants and charms,' she said, returning his smile. 'They're worn as protection against evil and bad fortune.'
'Better than perfect,' he said. 'Think I'll hang him right over my phone. For when the boss calls to check up on me.'
Her amused grin broadened.
'I can tell you the asking price is very fair,' she said. 'A lot of time goes into making these wayang kulit puppets, at least the quality ones. This man's even have bison horn rods.'
'Is that also supposed to be good luck?'
'Not if you're a bison, I suppose. But it shows quality workmanship. Most of the puppets they sell to tourists
